


Kisuke vs. A Bullet

by Fleur_de_Lure



Series: unnamed yakuza au [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Kisuke is part of the mafia, M/M, Medical Procedures, ichigo is a kindergarten teacher, it's not that graphic but it's a little graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleur_de_Lure/pseuds/Fleur_de_Lure
Summary: Yakuza hitman Kisuke stumbles into the yard of kindergartner teacher Ichigo with a bullet in his leg. Luckily for him, Ichigo's dealt with this kind of thing before. Unluckily (or maybe it's still lucky), Ichigo's hot and Kisuke can't avoid noticing, even if he has lost a lot of blood.Warning: there's like, semi graphic depictions of surgery. I don't think it's that bad but, yeah, fair warning.
Relationships: Kurosaki Ichigo/Urahara Kisuke
Series: unnamed yakuza au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083881
Comments: 15
Kudos: 174





	Kisuke vs. A Bullet

It’s not that Kisuke _blames_ Yoruichi for his current predicament. Sure, if it weren’t for her, he’d never be in this situation, but putting the blame on Yoruichi is an exercise in futility really. He’s the one that accepted her request and he’s the one who got unlucky enough to get caught. Well, nearly caught. He’s too good to get caught, no matter how unlucky he is.

‘At least the target is dead,’ he thinks to himself. It would just be embarrassing if Kisuke had been unable to complete the assignment. He might not take on a lot of hits anymore, having moved up a bit in the family and now spending most of his time with his computers and his programs, but he’s still one of the best the Shihoin has ever had. Anyone who says differently, well, they won’t live to say it a second time. It wouldn’t even necessarily be Kisuke to kill them either, Yoruichi would probably do it herself.

But this, this entire assignment has been a shitshow right from the start. From bad information to just plain bad luck, it’s been an assassination plagued with problems right from the start. The first two attempts, not by Kisuke luckily, were disastrous, one ending in their own hitman being killed another in roughly ten million yen worth of collateral damage. So, when Yoruichi came to him and asked him to make use of his, messier, skills once again, he’d agreed easily.

At this point it was just getting embarrassing for the Shihoin family. The target is just a two bit little trafficker with honestly deeper pockets than he should have, but there’s nothing about him that makes him particularly dangerous.

Sure, there were more bodyguards than expected. And sure, the key card that was supposed to grant him entry notified backup instead. But Kisuke had his pride to think of, and, even a dozen men after him, manages to complete the job.

And then promptly takes a bullet to the leg in what was an incredibly lucky ricochet from the enemy and an incredibly unlucky quirk of physics for Kisuke.

Now he’s stuck hobbling his way through side alleys and across roofs in this idyllic suburb of Tokyo trying to both avoid running into either the policy or other yakuza and stanch the blood before he bleeds all over Karakura. The blood’s made him ridiculously easy to track until he gets a chance to tie the ripped sleeve of his jacket over the wound, but it’s still sluggishly leaking and Kisuke is starting to get a little lightheaded. He’s lost more blood than he’d prefer, would, of course have most preferred not to have lost any blood, but regrettably, Kisuke’s never been the lucky sort.

He dares to drop down behind a tall wall into a lush backyard, hiding himself among some bushes as he drags his cellphone out of his pocket. He needs to call for a pickup. He’d missed his prearranged rendezvous spot and there’s no way he’s taking anything like public transportation, not without having the cops called on him, or worse, dropping unconscious in a train car. He drags the phone out of the zipped pants pocket he’d put it in earlier, the thing light in his hand, and, he brushes his thumb over the screen, definitely broken.

He can tell without even looking that the screen has been smashed. Can feel the small bits of glass falling out of the phone as he brings it up to look at. It must have happened when he’d jumped across a wide alley, landing hard on the opposite roof, having to roll. He doesn’t remember feeling it but with the amount of adrenaline surging through his veins Kisuke’s not surprised. Probably wouldn’t feel anything less than another gunshot wound. He presses uselessly at the power button, begging it to still work in his head, but nothing happens, the cracked screen remains dark.

“Piece of shit burner,” he curses shoving it back in his pocket. If he’d been carrying his real phone this wouldn’t have happened, the phone he’d built himself could and had survived ten story drops, but these little plastic and glass things they get from the convenient store have the durability of a soap bubble. Safer to carry during times like these, but absolute garbage in quality. Maybe Kisuke will design a more durable disposable phone in the future. If he doesn’t bleed out in fucking Karakura.

“What the fuck are you doing back here,” a voice from beyond the bushes startles him. Kisuke tries to spin around on his heels and grunts as he topples over, leg burning. He can feel a tremor go through it. He looks up at the tall figure standing a few feet away and blinks.

It’s a man, young, maybe mid-twenties, with bright orange hair, warm brown eyes, and a scowl as fierce as any Kisuke’s seen on the face on various yakuza enforcers. He’s got wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and is wearing, of all things, an apron with a cute little embroidered strawberry on the chest. At least the apron rules out a rival organization. Probably.

Kisuke can’t believe he’s been caught be a civilian. Yoruichi will never let him hear the end of this. Will, on his death bed, which might be closer than expected, tell the tale of Urahara Kisuke, hitman extraordinaire, getting caught sneaking through the bushes by a man with a strawberry apron. Kisuke scrambles to stand up, trying to appear as casual as possible with a bloody pant leg and what he’s pretty sure are leaves stick out of his hair.

“Ah, hello,” Kisuke says with his winningest smile, the one Yoruichi tells him makes him look unhinged but which he thinks makes him look quite dashing. Given that the stranger’s scowl deepens Kisuke’s forced to admit that Yoruichi might have a point. Regardless, he sidles his way out of the hedges towards the gate in the wall he can see twenty feet away. “Please, pardon me, I didn’t mean to bother you, I’ll just be on my way, no harm down,” he babbles as a distraction as he goes to pass the man.

As he brushes past he’s grabbed by the arm which activates every instinct Kisuke has to attack, he’s spinning around on his good leg to jab at the throat at the man restraining him, only to widen his eyes as the man pulls his head of the way and catches Kisuke’s wrist with his own hand.

Kisuke knows he’s starting to suffer from blood loss and the come down off of adrenaline, but he’s still shocked to be caught.

The pair of them stare at each other in silence for a moment, honest to god birds chirping cheerfully in the background and the sound of traffic on the road outside the walls enclosing the backyard that Kisuke can now see has a large play set on it, swings and slides and everything.

“Woah, hey, no need for that,” the man says before stepping back, releasing Kisuke as he goes. He raises his hands in the universal gesture of peace. “I was just gonna say, that looks bad.” He nods towards Kisuke’s leg.

“Ah, that? That’s nothing. Just a little accident,” Kisuke says, making sure to wave his arm grandly in order to distract the man. He puts on another foppish grin. Kisuke is excellent at playing the fool when he needs to be.

“Yeah, sure. Look, you gonna see someone for that?” The man in the apron frowns, looking down at Kisuke’s leg. He rubs a hand along his jaw, bringing Kisuke’s attention to the sharpness and angle of it.

“Eventually, yes!” Kisuke tells him, taking a step back to begin leaving again. Except as he steps back a bolt of pain shots up his leg and it nearly collapses beneath him. The stranger catches his elbow to steady him as Kisuke regains his balance, keeping most of the weight on his uninjured leg. Kisuke curses in his mind, his brief pause in running has done him more harm than good here.

“Eventually, huh,” the man huffs, rolling his eyes. “Come on, I’ll patch you up.” He tugs Kisuke towards the sliding glass doors standing open on the other side of the back yard. The man must have seen Kisuke slip into the yard through them earlier.

“That’s really not necessary, uh,” Kisuke trails off, stumbling after the man. Pain races from his thigh down to his knee and up to his back and he feels his leg tremble again as Kisuke tries to keep up.

“Kurosaki Ichigo. I put myself through college working as a paramedic. I know what I’m doing,” he claims, which isn’t really the issue here. He pauses to press himself up against Kisuke’s side so he can half carry Kisuke towards the house.

He’s a little shorter than Kisuke, so Kisuke’s arm fits easily over his shoulder. His body pressed to Kisuke’s radiates heat. He’s incredibly solid, doesn’t so much as wobble under Kisuke’s weight, and Kisuke is no lightweight. The instant relief of having most of his weight taken off his leg leaves Kisuke panting.

“This really isn’t necessary, Kurosaki-san,” Kisuke tries to argue, refusing to let himself be distracted by Ichigo’s body against his own, even if it is, admittedly, a rather nice body.

“It’s fine,” Ichigo grunts, helping Kisuke step up into the large room. It runs the width of the house, pale floorboards covered in colorful rugs. Tiny tables with tinier chairs take up one side of the room and play mats are laid out on the other. The walls are ringed in low bookshelves, toy bins, and dry erase boards. Kisuke blinks as he looks around, unsure what he’s stumbled into.

“I’d prefer not to involve you, Kurosaki-san,” Kisuke tries again as he’s forced through the room into a kitchen with a bar counter taking up the middle and a kitchen table pressed up against a window overlooking the side yard. It’s impressively clean, stainless steel appliances shining, floor squeaking under their shoes.

“I said it’s fine,” Ichigo hugs again, setting Kisuke down onto a stool. Kisuke wobbles a little, trying to keep his balance without using his injured leg. “It’s not the first time I’ve done something like this.” Ichigo turns to some cupboards pulling out big plastic boxes with red cross on them.

“What, dug a bullet out of a gangster?” Kisuke asks before he can stop himself. He blames the adrenaline crash, or maybe the shock, he’s probably going into shock by now. Ichigo turns around to face him and raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, actually, but you’d probably rather I forget you said that.” Ichigo says carrying over cases to set on the table. He smacks the counter. “Get up here,” he says before pulling off his apron. He pulls open a drawer to pull a different one out, this one a plain black.

Kisuke considers his options. He could leave now, and probably stumble into a nearby alley and pass out. He could ask for a phone and call someone to pick him up and take him to one of the Shihoin back-alley surgeons. Or he could get up on the counter and let this odd stranger, who has admitted to having experience in this sort of thing but who could be lying, dig a bullet out of his thigh.

‘If Yoruichi asks, I’m saying my judgement was impaired by the blood loss,’ Kisuke thinks to himself before climbing is way gingerly up the counter. It might even be true.

“I’m gonna have to take your pants off,” Ichigo tells him, washing his hands thoroughly in the kitchen sink.

“Buy me a drink first,” Kisuke mutters to himself, attention drawn to watching Ichigo’s shoulder blades move under his thin t-shirt. Shoulders shake just a little in laughter, telling Kisuke he’s been heard.

“I don’t have anything alcoholic here, so you’re out of luck,” Ichigo tells him, drying his hands with paper towels before putting gloves on.

“Why haven’t you called the police? Or an ambulance?” Kisuke asks, dreadfully curious. It’s the smart thing to do, the normal thing.

“I figured you wouldn’t like that, and you’re the one carrying knives,” the man tells him as he pulls things out of the plastic cases, including a scalpel and forceps. Bottles of something, packs of gauze, it’s a veritable emergency room of supplies.

“How did you…” Kisuke begins, shaking his head in confusion. “Who are you?”

“Told you, my name is Kurosaki Ichigo. I teach kindergarten for a bunch of kids,” Ichigo says laying out supplies. He’s admirably calm. Seems to find this no different from a normal Thursday.

“A kindergarten teacher? I thought you were a paramedic?”

“I did that to get through college, and to please my dad. But my dad died, and now here I am,” he shrugs as he pulls out a pair of blunt tipped shears. “Hold still, I gotta cut the pant leg off.” He sets the scissor to Kisukes ankle, the cold metal making him jump and causing Ichigo a grab at his ankle to keep him still. Even through the gloves Ichigo’s hand is warm.

“And you’ve no problem fixing up people carrying weapons,” Kisuke asks faintly, mostly to distract himself as the scissors slice through his pant leg, coming close to his wound. Fabric sticks as Ichigo carefully pulls it away, stinging as it comes loose. Kisuke can feel more blood ooze down his leg.

“Like I said, I’ve done it before. Guys in my old neighborhood were always getting in trouble, causing trouble. Once they realized I knew how to fix ‘em up they’d come to me.”

“And you fixed them up out of the kindness of your heart?” It seems unlikely. An Angel of Mercy in Karakura town.

“Nah, I charged them, or I made them do me favors.” He begins wiping blood off of Kisuke’s leg, not shying from the puncture wound. The smell of iodine fills the air of the kitchen. Kisuke forces himself to breathe through the discomfort, knowing it will only get worse.

“And what favor do you want from me, Kurosaki-kun,” Kisuke asks, genuinely curious. Will it be money? Will it be protection? Will this angel ask him to kill someone?

“Maybe this time I am doing it out of the kindness of my heart,” Ichigo tells him, giving him a wicked grin before his face settles back into the scowl Kisuke is starting to think is his default state. “Now shut up, I gotta concentrate.”

What follows is several minutes that Kisuke would prefer to forget exists. The mental fortitude it takes to keep his leg still as Ichigo digs around in it for the bullet can’t be overstated. He’s glad he doesn’t have to look at, can’t see it from this angle. Kisuke’s fixed himself up before, from mishaps and misadventures, from lucky hits and near misses, and it’s never pleasant to be looking under the skin. He’s never had to get a bullet removed before though. Kisuke grits his teeth, breathes deeply, and wills himself far away from the moment. He lets his eyes fall to Ichigo’s face, seeing the concentration there.

Kisuke admits he finds Ichigo handsome. He’s got sharp, even features and stunning coloring. His cheekbones must be the envy of every woman Ichigo knows. He’s undeniably masculine but there’s an elegance to his bone structure that causes a bolt of electricity through Kisuke’s nerves.

Or maybe that’s the pain of Ichigo pulling out the bullet.

“You’re lucky, wasn’t deep, just nicked a vein. I’ll be able to stitch it up easily enough, but you probably should try to see an actual doctor soon,” Ichigo tells him, dropping the bullet into a ceramic dish. It clatters loudly.

“Great,” Kisuke tells him, trying for false cheer and failing. He wants to vomit. Only doesn’t through sheer willpower.

“Just hold still for a little while longer,” Ichigo tells him, patting a bloody hand on his thigh.

“Don’t worry, I’ve transcended beyond the ability to feel pain,” Kisuke says. Indeed, it’s gotten to the point where the pain no longer feels like it’s happening to him but is instead some distant thing. ‘It’s amazing what the human body can endure,’ thinks Kisuke to himself, eyes trained on Ichigo. ‘Although, a man could endure a lot when looking at a face like this.’

“Christ, okay, just stay with me,” Ichigo says, pushing a needle through Kisuke’s thigh. The pinch, pull, pinch, pull is almost soothing in its repetition.

“Did I say that out loud?” Kisuke wonders vaguely.

“Yeah, shit, you’ve probably lost more blood than I thought.” Ichigo’s voice is tight and strained, his scowl more pronounced as he works, eyes flicking from where he’s working to Kisuke’s face and back.

“Don’t suppose you have transfusion supplies lying around?”

“Nope, just try to focus on my voice, okay?”

“Damn,” Kisuke sighs, tries to anchor himself with the feeling of Ichigo’s hands on his thigh, working diligently, and Ichigo’s voice telling him some sort of story about a hoard of children and a racoon or maybe it’s a cat. Maybe he should have asked to call someone and been taken to a doctor. Although, he can’t say he’s upset about being under Ichigo’s competent hands.

“Done,” Ichigo finally says an indeterminable amount of time later. Kisuke blinks down at his thigh and sees it swaddle in white bandages. Must have truly been distant to not even realize those were going on. “Here, slowly.”

A glass with a straw is held up to Kisuke’s lips and he realizes that he’s thirsty for the first time. He takes a few sips before it’s pulled away and a hand is pressing pills into his palm.

“Take these, it’s painkillers.” They could be poison for all Kisuke knows or cares. He takes them, swallowing them dry before Ichigo gets the glass back to him. He finishes the glass before Ichigo steps away.

“I’ll get you another in a bit. You rest while I clean up.” There’s spots on the black apron a little darker than they should be, and sweat stains the neck of Ichigo’s white t-shirt.

Kisuke drifts for a while, not entirely aware of time passing. Ichigo is just background noise as he bustles around the kitchen, washing things down. Instruments clatter loudly in the sink, steel against steel, and plastic clasps make loud snaps as cases are closed again. He thinks Ichigo leaves at one point, and that’s about when the pills kick in and he starts feeling the pain lower.

He couldn’t say how long it’s been when Ichigo leans over him, wearing a new shirt and holding another glass of water. Might be a few minutes, might be an hour. He’s been careful not to move his leg and let the medicine work.

“Ready for more?”

Kisuke’s more than ready, he’s incredibly thirsty still, with a pounding headache. Dehydration, definitely, caused by the blood loss. He’s also ready to sit up, tired of lying on the hard counter now that he’s aware enough to find it uncomfortable. He starts levering himself up only to have Ichigo curse and slide a strong arm around his back when he sways just a bit.

“Careful, you might be dizzy,” he says as he supports Kisuke. Kisuke is a little dizzy, but it’s fine. He’s not going to do anything embarrassing like fall off the counter. Kisuke hopes not anyway. He takes the glass from Ichigo, relieved when his hand doesn’t shake to hold it.

“It seems you’re quite the surgeon,” Kisukes tells Ichigo after he finishes draining the glass. His stomach rolls a little, too full suddenly, but Kisuke powers through it, setting the glass carefully back onto the blood countertop.

“Hardly, but you’ll live. Your blood pressure is a little low but nothing dire.” Kisuke blinks at him, unsure of when Ichigo took it, but looking around there’s a cuff lying on the kitchen table.

“Why do you have all these medical supplies?” Kisuke asks, more curious now that he isn’t actively bleeding out. Things like these aren’t always easy or cheap to get.

“Was my dad’s. He used to own a clinic. When he died, we sold most of the stuff, but I took some too. Just in case. I like having it around, in case something happens to one of the kids.” The man shrugs at him, like it’s normal to scalpels and sutures in your first aid cupboard.

“Hmm,” Kisuke eyes Ichigo again, letting his gaze fall from the top of Ichigo’s head to the comfortable sneakers he’s wearing, and back up again. Ichigo doesn’t so much as flinch. He isn’t sure he completely believes that excuse, but he isn’t sure he doesn’t believe it either. “You’re a very interesting person, Kurosaki-san.”

“I’m just a kindergarten teacher. It’s pretty boring, actually,” Ichigo claims. “You think you can stand? I got some sweatpants you can have. And then, you probably want to call someone, right?”

He picks up a pair of folded grey sweats off the table before shoving them into Kisuke’s hands. They’re worn soft with age and washing, but they’re clean, and more importantly, not missing a leg.

“Trying to get rid of me?” Kisuke teases as he gingerly climbs down the counter, making sure to keep a hand on it at all times until he’s positive he’s not about to fall over. That would be humiliating after everything else.

“Yeah, you can tell?”

“So hurtful, Kurosaki-san. Where is your bedside manner?”

“You see a bed?”

 _I’d like to see your bed_ , Kisuke carefully doesn’t say as he heads over towards a door he can tell leads into a bathroom. He’d rather not take the rest of his pants off here in front of Ichigo. Not in this sort of situation anyway.

He takes his time getting to the bathroom, not wanting to overestimate himself and end up collapsing. His leg hurts, but it’s certainly better than it was. Behind him he hears the sink turn on again and figures Ichigo is cleaning up the counter where he was lying.

Once in the bathroom he turns to the mirror and winces. He looks remarkably pale, more so than usual even, and the dark circles under his eyes make it look like he wasn’t just shot, but also punched in the face a couple times for good measure. His hair is a disaster, and there is indeed a leaf in it, which he plucks out quickly and tosses in the trashcan by the sink.

“You’re not impressing anyone today, Urahara,” he tells himself with a sigh, turning on the sink.

He washes his hands first, blood caught under his nails and in the creases of his palms. Wrestles off his jacket with its lone sleeve, emptying out the pockets. Then he takes off his shoes, he’ll have to apologize for wearing them indoors, and then his pants, gritting his teeth as he pulls them over the bandage. Even with one leg cut off it’s still a hassle to get the rest down. He does as good a job as he can wiping off blood and iodine around the stark white bandages, trying not to get water on them. He ruins a towel, grimaces as he throws it away along with his pants and jacket, leaving the garbage phone in the pocket of the pants. The sweatpants are a little too tight in the waist, Kisuke thicker around than Ichigo, but they work well enough.

Lastly, he washes his face, removing sweat and dirt. He feels better for it. More human. Steadier after he does and capable of facing Ichigo again. Wishes a little vaguely they’d met in better circumstances, when Kisuke didn’t look like death warmed over and hadn’t marred the man’s spotless kitchen with his blood. Settles for putting an absentminded smile on his face and leaves the bathroom, eyes darting around the kitchen for Ichigo.

He’s not there, and the kitchen is spotless. You’d never be able to tell that an illegal and ill-advised surgery occurred here probably less than an hour ago. It looks no different than it had when they first entered except for a bottle of painkillers on the table. Kisuke grabs a couple more pills, dry swallowing them before abandoning the kitchen and heading back into the great room he’d entered in earlier. Clearly the classroom Ichigo teaches from.

Ichigo isn’t there either but Kisuke doesn’t mind. He takes the opportunity to look around the room. Everything about the room is bright and clean and welcoming. Vibrant colors, pale woods, soft fabrics. The walls are covered in posters, drawings, torn out coloring book pages, and also photos. Most of the photos are of children, either in this room or in the backyard Kisuke was in earlier, clearly the students, past or present, a few have a woman with long auburn hair who’s smiling brightly in every photo, another teacher maybe, or an aide. Some even have an orange striped cat looking put out as various children pet and carry it. But some of the photos have Ichigo in them.

Ichigo looks, different, surrounded by children. More relaxed, less scowly. He’s eyes are soft whenever the camera captures him looking at the kids. Nearly every photo of him he’s with the children, sometimes also with the woman with long hair, but Kisuke finds one of Ichigo in the backyard, clearly taking a break after digging a hole for a sapling tree that’s standing next to him, waiting to be planted. The sun glints off Ichigo’s hair and warms his eyes and he’s smiling at whoever is taking the picture.

Maybe the woman? Who is this woman anyway? A coworker? A partner? Kisuke hopes it’s not the latter.

Well, it doesn’t matter. Kisuke quickly unpins the photo from the wall and shoves it into the pocket of the sweats. Just in time as he hears Ichigo’s footsteps coming down the hall.

“Oh, hey,” Ichigo says, looking surprised to see Kisuke in the classroom. He has a cellphone in his hand. The suspicious part of Kisuke wonders if he’s just used it to call the police. The more logical part of him says if Ichigo was going to do that he would have done it when Kisuke was lying nearly insensate on the counter.

“I thought I’d take a look around, you have some budding artists here,” Kisuke gestures to a drawing of what is either a very odd looking two headed bird or maybe a person playing hockey? It’s impossible to tell. “We’re you talking to someone?”

“Thought you might want to call someone to get you. I don’t imagine you’d want to take the train right now,” Ichigo says, unlocking his phone before handing it over to Kisuke.

“Thank you,” Kisuke says as he quickly thumbs to the history. The last call was incoming four hours ago. No calls to the police. With a sudden thought, Kisuke enters in the number to his own cell phone, letting it ring until his voicemail picks up. “Ah, not answering, I’ll try someone else.” He disconnects, sure he has Ichigo’s number now and calls an actual driver.

With a little bit of conversation Kisuke arranges to be picked up down at the crossroads, wanting to keep Ichigo out of sight of anyone else for now. Kisuke knows he’ll have to tell Yoruichi everything, but that’s Yoruichi, others, especially low in the family hierarchy drivers, don’t need to know anything about what’s occurred here today.

Not because it’s embarrassing to Kisuke, although it is, but because invariably someone would get it into their fool head to either check Ichigo out or ensure his silence, and if either of those things happens Kisuke will have to do a murder.

Another murder.

Hanging up he hands the phone back to Ichigo, making sure their hands brush as he does so, pleased when Ichigo doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you, for everything. It’s very kind of you,”

“Sure,” Ichigo shrugs. Kisuke laughs. Does the man not realize what he’s done today? Does he any no pride in his work? No reservations in helping a criminal like Kisuke.

Ichigo surely isn’t stupid, so why doesn’t he care?

“Sure, he says, after digging a bullet out of a man’s thigh.”

“Well, what did you expect me to say,” he asks, rubbing a hand through the hair on the back of his head.

Kisuke hums, thoughtfully. “You won’t take anything for compensation?”

“You don’t gotta pay me,” Ichigo scowls at him again and Kisuke thinks he could get used to being on the receiving end of that look. Slowly the pair of them start heading for the front door, which is off a hallway lined with cubbies and empty coat hooks hung low enough a child could reach them.

“Yes, and you already said no favors, but I’d feel terrible if I didn’t do anything to thank you,” Kisuke tells him, pausing by the door.

“It’s fi-“

Kisuke cuts Ichigo off by pressing his lips to Ichigo’s, bending just a little to close the scant difference in height. Ichigo’s lips move against his, trying to continue speaking before Kisuke presses a little harder, delighting in the warmth and softness of Ichigo’s lips against his. Kisuke slips a hand to the back of Ichigo’s head before he can pull away, keeping him where Kisuke wants him. Boldly, Kisuke lets his tongue dip into the open cavern of Ichigo’s mouth, briefly touching his tongue, the inside of his lips, before pulling back. Ichigo stands frozen, blinking in shock, mouth open, staring at Kisuke.

“Thank you,” Kisuke tells him with a smile and a wink. Quickly, ducking out the door before Ichigo can regain his wits. It was a spur of the moment move, but Kisuke can’t bring himself to regret it.

He’s halfway down the walk before the door is thrown back open behind him, a shouted “Asshole!” sent after him before the door slams again.

Kisuke smiles to himself as he makes his way to the meeting point, not even noticing the burn in his thigh any longer.

This whole predicament is Yoruichi’s fault, and Kisuke’s gonna thank her for it.

**Author's Note:**

> This is Euca's fault because she enabled me. I cannot believe I managed to write another 5k words before the new year.
> 
> There will be more in this universe but it's all going to be oneshots, updated whenever I get around to writing more between chapters of my other works.
> 
> Let me know what you think and if you want to see more, and also if you have any ideas for this AU.
> 
> (btw you can check my profile for updates on where I am with chapters)


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